


Remission

by birdcharmer



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-25 21:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12541876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdcharmer/pseuds/birdcharmer
Summary: Vignette. Missing scene from the end of Redux II. What does it mean to be given a new chance at life when you expect to die?





	Remission

Remission. I’m rolling the word around in my mouth like a hard candy, while wishing everyone would leave with their theories and plans. For Father McCue, it’s the work of God, and maybe it is, but I suspect it’s from a bit further down, as I can’t imagine the cigarette smoker as an angel of any kind. Mom doesn’t care where it comes from, but I think she’s with the Father. Bill is in a huff, not that he wants me to die, but he hates that Mulder provided the means. My doctor, well, while he’s happy I can see how much he wants to call the Sponsor of the final trial I participated in and tell them the good news, but before that, he has to verify the remission for himself in the way we as doctors have to verify anything that seems unusual.   
So he has scheduled a bunch of tests for tomorrow, starting with a PET scan, then an MRI, then blood tests, then if he can find any piece of the tumor, he wants to do a biopsy, or at least try to get something out of the area. I can see his excitement that he may be the first writer of the paper about the new study, his eyes are fairly glowing and he can’t sit still as he talks to me. It’s unfair to be this cynical, though, I know he’s excited for me and oncologists so rarely see what could be classified as cures. I shy away from that word, remission will do for now, don’t want to think about a cure. But the remission must be catalogued and verified on paper, in numbers and black and white x-ray images. I’m already exhausted thinking about yet another day of tests, when all I want to do is get out of here. Away from that unique hospital smell and death around every corner. Away from the bruises from failed IVs and blinding headaches and being too tired to take a step. I know the remission is real, I don’t need the proof that my doctor wants. But I guess I owe it to him. So as always I’ll do what I’m supposed to and give him his proof, if it really is real. I’m not sure what is real right now, and I long for everyone to leave my room so I can hold the word “remission” in my hands, handling it like a soft, smooth stone egg, smoothing over the long planes and feeling it heat up with my touch.   
Finally , everyone decides they should go to dinner. Their joy is palpable, while I just sit here, stunned. I know they’re concerned that I’m not fulfilling their expectations of how I should react, that they expect me to be dancing around the room and smiling. I’ve always tried to do what people expect of me, and this is new to my family, that I’m just sitting here, poleaxed. I’ve been given a gift beyond my wildest dreams and I have no idea what to do with it. Ideas are tumbling over each other, but I don’t dare pursue them. What if it’s not in remission? I’ve seen the early scans, but I’ve also seen evidence disappear and change too many times over the last four years to trust my own eyes.   
I suddenly realize I’m holding onto the bed railing with a fierce grip, trying to ground myself and stop the whirling storm in my head, much like when I was first diagnosed. I’m too tired now, though, to fight the feelings. When I was diagnosed, I set down a list of things to do, but now, there’s no direction for me to turn. When you get cancer, there is a prescribed list of treatments and actions and you just get tossed into the stream of treatments and tests, whether you really want to or not. There’s always a next step, ending with the final step, death. Everything is planned, though. Catalogued and filed. Now I’ve been left with nothing, no next treatment, so I oscillate between the millions of things I want to do and being lost. I’m falling apart, and I can justify it as reaction, and it probably is to some extent, but it’s more than that. It’s the ultimate planner’s failure in some ways. I had everything set up and was ready to let go, but much as I’m thrilled, I’m lost at sea at the same time.   
“Hey Scully,” I hear a soft voice from behind my door, and Mulder peers around the corner. Seeing that everyone has left, he walks into the room, smiling softly. I know he’s happy, happy for me, not just for himself. I scold myself for thinking that about my family, that they’re at least as happy for themselves as for me. No funeral to plan. Then I meet his eyes as he lets down the bed rail and sits down on the bed. I want to know what happened with work, but not right this moment. For now, I just need to feel his warm, solid body next to mine, holding me together as he’s done so many times in the past. His arm slips around my shoulders and I snuggle into his chest, nose pushed into him so all I can smell is Mulder. He surrounds me, holding the pieces together. My brain stops its frantic whirling as I breathe in his familiar scent. My eyes close in relief, and I feel my arms and head grow heavier. I can feel his smile through my hair as he leans his head on mine, and he drops a soft kiss on my hair. I grip him even tighter and he tightens his arm around me in return.   
“Shh, Scully, it’s real. It really is.” Mulder has enough faith for the two of us. He believes, and therefore, just for tonight, I will also believe.


End file.
